Dyslexia Echopraxia
by IDOL HANDS
Summary: Trapped beneath the lowest layers, how far would you be willing to wander if it made you question your reality?  And once crossed, where do the lines lay anymore? Realities cross and fantasies blur.  Wait.  Strike that, reverse it.  SLASH, chan, shota
1. Part I

**Title:** Dyslexia-Echopraxia, Part I

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** PG

**Warnings:** darkish

**Disclaimer:** The following characters are not mine, but the estate of Dahl, Burton, Depp and Highmore.

**Summary:** Not much, but I'll try to describe my direction: Trapped beneath the lowest layers, how far would you be willing to wander if it made you question your reality? And once crossed, where do the lines lay anymore?

"**press my button"**

Charlie Bucket had been told that any part of the factory his heart desired could be explored - with a solitary caveat: he could not ask questions if he visited a room which had not been formally introduced and explained. It was a strange clause but it gave the boy a sense of freedom at the same time that it kept his curiosity under control. Mostly.

The Great Glass Elevator was the best way to know what all the rooms were, a convenient list covering every inch with a translucent button by its side. One need only push the button and they would be transported there post haste. He stood inside the object staring wide-eyed at a button, at the very bottom, in a corner. It was called The Lair. It sounded very interesting and strange.

So much in the factory was tempting like this.

Friday afternoons were free exploratory time while the famous man was busy. He'd patiently waited months for Willy to pick it while they were together, but despite the hundred or so impossible rooms that were explained, not this one. Charlie had never picked a room that hadn't been chosen by his mentor.

His finger hovered over it…

The boy was very quiet at dinner that evening. Deep thoughts weighed on his mind, especially ones of doubt toward the chocolatier sitting across from him – a person who had become a hero. Wonka was happily regaling his The Buckets with tales of yore while the boy tried to listen, the words drowned out by his own worries. So badly did the child want to ask questions, to get an explanation that would explain everything and restore his faith. But he couldn't. That was the rule.

Instead, he'd racked his brains all day to find some other solution. Holding in secrets hadn't been so difficult with someone to share them but now he was alone in this horrible knowledge.

He waited until his mentor stepped outside of their lop-sided cottage to present a question that _could_ be asked. The nighttime factory light on the pale man's skin gave him an ethereal glow. Words tripped out of the child's mouth, practically a question mark on the very name, "Mi-Mister Wonka.."

A mechanical spin down toward his form, eyes zeroed in like telescopic lenses, like dark didn't phase their vision in the slightest.

Charlie swallowed. "Could I bring over a classmate next Friday?"

Twist and turn, a Rubik cube of expressions, queries asked and answered within the clockwork of the chocolatier's mind. Was he calculating manipulation or withholding inner turmoils? Funny how questions led to more questions, how one secret and suspicion created to another.

"Don't want your family to know, that's why you asked me out here, huh?" A quirk of the bright mouth.

He nodded.

"Name?"

"Actually, it's the same as mine but we're not related."

An amused sound hiccupped out. A pause. "Of course, I'll be much too busy to meet him."

That was as close to permission as he was going to get.

"I understand."

The boy lowered his head, almost in a bow as he turned away. A step from re-entering his jovial and warm home, suddenly the crook of his elbow was firmly gripped. He gasped and into his ear was whispered, "But you're the only friend that _I_ need."

Then released.

A figure already far gone in the twisted shadows of The Chocolate Room.

Those vulnerable words disturbed the boy as he went to sleep that night. He didn't know what to feel about the man at this point. Or himself.

**To be continued.**


	2. Part II

**Title:** Dyslexia-Echopraxia, Part II

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** PG-13

**Warnings:** darkish, A/U of WWatCF, mild chan/shota

**Disclaimer:** The following characters are not mine, but the estate of Dahl and all the people who made them come to life.

**Special Thanks: To** those demented enough to keep believing.

**Summary:** Realities cross and fantasies blur. Wait. Strike that, reverse it.

**"What happens in the factory stays in the factory"**

Initially he didn't think too much about the fact that an American boy with the exact same name had transferred to the school. After all, He couldn't be the only Charlie Bucket in the world. Currently it took on a whole new significance.

The other boy had easily accepted the invitation, under the heir's caveat that he was to never tell anyone about it. Seeing the inside of the world's biggest factory was such a rare opportunity that even wearing a blindfold wasn't objected to.

"Can I meet Willy Wonka?"

"That's exactly who I want you to meet."

Dutifully, on it's own programming; The Great Glass Elevator had been waiting outside of school. Two passengers rather than one, stepped aboard this Friday afternoon. This other Charlie saw nothing as it reinserted into the roof and corkscrewed down, down, down past all the other rooms. But the Oompa-loompas saw everything. The little people took on new meaning too, but teasing song and dance aside, they knew how to keep a secret. Obviously.

He felt badly about not telling his own family, but they couldn't meet this classmate. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

They got along as well as he'd hoped they would. He watched his doppelgänger with overgrown blonde hair, talk and explore with the other candyman.

Last week he'd been shocked to discover this underground version of the chocolate factory; completely different though equally intriguing lining the basement as far as the eye could see. Complete with a flying elevator, more brass than glass, that the boy could only assume worked like a the virtual reality machine he'd been introduced to. However, even more shocking was the man with wiry curls in a top hat, velvet jacket and walking cane that also introduced himself as Willy Wonka and took him on the tour. Said he was in fact the REAL Willy Wonka, being kept prisoner by an imposter above.

Their eyes twinkled the same, their voices both musically captivatating, each had personalities that shifted from gentle sunrise to ocean storm in a second and they both thought as eccentrically as they dressed. How could he not help but like this man with blue eyes as much as the one with lavender? Although the Oompa-loompas in his universe were better than this Wonka's large ones with orange skin and green hair (funny how each set of workers resembled their employer). When he'd told the man what his purpose in the factory was, this Willy was immediately envious, said he'd always wanted the exact same thing. Of course.

It had only gotten scary when the boy needed to leave. The new man gripped him by the crook of the arm, causing him to jump later that day when the action was repeated by someone claiming the same nomenclature.

The look in his eyes was deranged, possessive. "I didn't realize until you found me…I need a Charlie too."

And so, a promise was made.

He had not expected to find them in a close embrace near the pale chocolate river when he returned. Nor had he expected to see the boy who was nestled between the man's legs, allow himself to be kissed. On the lips. Eyes falling closed. It lingering much too long to be friendly.

Had the psychedelic Oompa-loompas not begun singing, distracting the two from the mood, they wouldn't have noticed the first Charlie's return from the factory above. Upon sighting, the other Wonka gave a look of warning and wrapped his arms protectively around the child. The boy spoke, placing his hand reassuringly on his partner's.

"I don't want to go back. I can't wait until next week. I want to stay here. Forever."

"What about your family? They'll worry."

"They use me like a slave and barely feed me. But here…everything is warm and perfect. And Mr. Wonka makes me feel so special."

The other Charlie then lowered his angelic face in shame, "Oh, you must be angry. I don't mean to steal him from you."

"No. It's what I hoped for." Said the British boy, blushing. "Uh, sort of."

The two cuddled into each other.

"He can only stay if I never have to come back."

The blue-eyed man answered, "I do believe we've struck a deal."

Having insisted on time alone with _his_ chocolatier, the original pair were similarly by their own chocolate river that evening. Side by side rather than intertwined. His Wonka did not like touch usually.

After Charlie had left the room, one thought had lingered most. How could a person, lock up another person, for the rest of their life, and never tell anyone?

Now he knew. Now he was a player in the very same game: how strange the ways of fate, stranger than golden tickets. Thick chocolate waves undulated and swirled, away and into itself again - an endless cycle. When the boy looked away from the hypnotic pattern, he found Wonka looking right back at him. Or was it?

The man smiled gently, eyes a glimmer.

Could this person, his hero, really be an imposter? The boy bit his bottom lip. What was real and what was fake? Was there a dark side to his Grandmother's phrase, "nothing's impossible"? His heart ached like it had been ripped from his chest. He wasn't supposed to ask questions but this was too much!

"I have to fix that misspelling on my glass elevator tomorrow." Quipped Willy. "Such a pain, having to get the whole darn machine re-built. That's why I put it off. Only way to keep it water tight and space-ready though. "

Charlie blinked.

"L-A-I-R and L-I-A-R are very similar words but they mean very different things. Tsk, stupid dyslexia of mine. The Oompa-loompas do whatever I tell them without question. Loyal to a fault."

The boys eyes were welled up. _Loyal to a fault._

How he understood.

"Gosh, I hope ya didn't push that one." Grimaced the candymaker. "There's a complete wackadoo in there who thinks he's me! Poor soul is the messy result of an extensive brain-washing program. Talk about goin' to any length to get my recipes!"

Charlie's jaw dropped.

"I know. As if just anybody could do that." The man chuckled, "But after I got over him trying to kill and replace me, I decided it was sorta' flattering. Couldn't have him running around either. So, I kept him! Even hired midgets to play Oompa-Loompas, dallop of make-up and he don't know the difference."

"Say, that reminds me, how'd that little play date of yours go?"

Wonka unexpectedly found himself embraced in a zealous hug.

Quietly, lump in throat, the child said, "It made me realize that I only need one real friend too."

A deep, deep sigh came from Wonka. "By facing ourselves, we also come to understand ourselves."

Arms had been placed around Charlie as well, their faces were breathlessly near. A romantic silhouette was formed before the rising moon.

"Mr. Wonka, how…how much like you i is /i the other?"

"Mn, how much do ya think?" He answered, an octave lower than usual.

Like the button before, the boy hovered…

What was one more dare?

One more secret?

**NOTES: Or maybe **_**our**_** Willy IS the mad man who succeeded in "replacing" his alter ego! Bwa-ha-hah-ha! Dun, dun, dun. **

**I've slashed Gene Wilder. It's official, I've been completely corrupted. xX**

_**Dyslexia**_**: Impaired ability to understand written language, a learning disorder marked by a severe difficulty in recognizing and understanding written language, leading to spelling and writing problems. It is not caused by low intelligence or brain damage. Actually, often the opposite is true. **

_**Echopraxia**_**: Imitation of an action. The compulsive imitation of the actions of others, often a sign of a psychiatric disorder.**

**I think I write the nicest 'dark' stories, forgive me. I can't control the tales as they come out. But I offer them humbly and still feel inspired by the feel of hidden shadows here at the darkside. Oh and apologies for also not getting it to fit a prompt. I tried, but it didn't happen. This one was a surprise that grew out of the back of my head. Although I've been trying to get at the WWatCF world for a while.**


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